


Voices Calling

by Ophelia Coelridge (daemonluna)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-08-16
Updated: 2000-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonluna/pseuds/Ophelia%20Coelridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy is judged by his harshest critic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voices Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Title swiped blatantly from the lyrics of a [Captain Tractor](http://www.captaintractor.com/) song.

Billy was standing at the corner waiting for the lights to change when he heard the harsh whisper.

"Sell-out."

He looked sharply back over his shoulder. He knew that voice.

There, slouched against the lamp-post, punky-looking kid. Shivering in the California sun in a tight, worn t-shirt and a frayed pair of jeans riding low on skinny hips. He pushed himself away from the pole and sauntered over to stand in front of Billy.

Oh yeah, he thought he was tough. Scrawny and underfed, nothing but whipcord and sinew and one hell of an attitude.

"Fuckin' sell-out," he repeated, louder now. "What's with this Jenifur shit?"

"What the hell would you know?" Billy said resolutely, ignoring the sideways glances and dirty looks he was starting to draw. He didn't need this crap. God knew he was going to get enough of it over the next two days. More and more he was starting to think he should have dropped the whole benefit gig thing. Should have told Joe to go fuck himself, fuck Bucky too, and--

"I'd never pull that kinda shit," the kid said with absolute, scornful certainty. He turned his head and casually spit at Billy's feet.

Oh so cool. Jaw set and lips curled with a cynicism beyond his years, and the wary, wounded eyes of a feral creature.

"You can't live on attitude. You so sure you wouldn't?" Billy asked sardonically.

"Fuck, no!" came the earnest, indignant response.

Vancouver, nineteen seventy-five, Billy realized with a sudden clarity, at last putting his finger on the place and time. Vancouver in November was a bitch. Not as bitterly cold as the prairies, but damp and miserable with a chill that sunk in bone-deep and refused to be banished by any means.

"You'll only get fucked over in the end," he said harshly, a futile attempt to push away the ghosts of twenty years ago.

"Fuck you too." His companion scowled fiercely, and shivered again, wrapping skinny arms around his torso, ribs visible through the too-thin, too-tight cotton.

"Been there, done that," Billy muttered, earning a startled, suspicious look in return.

"You shitting me?"

"What's this, fucking twenty questions?" he said defensively.

"Yeah, who the hell you think you are, mister big star fuckin' Hollywood?" the kid sneered, spitting again.

Billy, tight-lipped, said nothing to that, an old and tired joke gone wrong.

"Stuck up prick--" the kid began, then started to cough. Billy's throat tightened in sympathy. It was a deep, hacking cough that left him struggling for breath. Bronchitis, maybe. Or too much pot. Or both.

"Bum a smoke?" he said hoarsely, hopefully, when he finally got his breath back.

"Oh, for... ferchrissake, grow up!" Billy snapped.

His fifteen-year-old self flipped him the finger and vanished.

"Was I ever that young and stupid?" Billy asked the empty air sourly, knowing that he had been, and maybe still was.

No response. He hadn't been expecting one. And anyhow, he had a plane to catch.

He shrugged, shouldered his guitar case, and squinting into the sun, kept walking.


End file.
